Crazy
by thepandathatrawrs
Summary: He vows to the heavens, to God, to Carly that he will keep his only remaining, living best friend alive. Focuses on how Freddie and Sam deals with the aftermath of Carly's death.
1. The Funeral

Chapter 1: The Funeral

Freddie remembers the day Carly died.

It had been a rainy day, the sky an ominous sign of things to come. Rain beat down on the roads, feet splashed hurriedly in and out of puddles, and the wind drowning out the voices of others with its own howls. He had heard distant sounds that cracked in the air – he knew he had not been the only one who had heard it, because other people in the café had turned their heads absently at the direction of the faint noise, but lightning had streaked through the dark sky right after. Some jumped, some winced, but all went back to their business, automatically connecting the foreign sound with thunder.

He should have known better.

It is hard to forget the pristine sheet that covered her body, the flashing headlines that screamed '20 YEAR OLD WEB CELEBRITY KILLED IN ROBBERY SHOOTOUT', the crying and the sobbing and the golden halo spread around Sam's body that would never be fully healed from the bullet wounds that flecked her shoulder. He does not want to remember the memory that is burned in his brain but he also does not want to forget.

He remembers the funeral.

It had rained that day, too, except it was milder, _softer_ than the day of the incident. It was as if Carly was weeping for her body up in the skies as she gazed down at all of them, the mass of black and white huddled tightly together under inappropriately colorful umbrellas. His left hand had gripped at the handle of his blue umbrella, the right clutched around the black handle of Sam's wheelchair. He does not remember what Sam had worn – something black and long, he knows that much – because it felt so _wrong_ to think about anybody _but_ Carly.

It is like being back in middle school again, but for all the wrong reasons. There was once a simpler time when the biggest crisis of his life was his unrequited crush on Carly starting in the sixth grade. He still winces every so often whenever he remembers a flash of his younger years spent on wooing Carly. Sam had been right about him having had stalker-like tendencies around Carly (although he would have never admitted it to the blonde-haired demon outright) – thank goodness he had changed. But now everything is the least of his worries.

Carly is dead. That is all that matters.

He remembers noticing that Sam had not cried – at least not early into the funeral. He only remembers because her stainless, pale face contrasted starkly against the tear-streaked faces of friends, family members, and strangers. Of course he had cried. He had never been one to mask his feelings. But Sam's self-control had been worth taking note of. While others might have seen an emotionless girl that could be so heartless as to not shed a single tear for her best friend's funeral, he knew better. He knew _her_ better.

The flatness in her eyes had unnerved him. Behind the façade, he had known there were a million things she would have liked to have said, a billion things she would have liked to have done. But she was stuck on the wheel chair, uncharacteristically too weak to move that she had to _depend_ on him to travel around.

Her speech about Carly had been short. So short that it had easily been the most memorable of all eulogies (if one could even call her speech that).

"I'm sorry I didn't try hard enough, Carls," she had said monotonously, staring out into a distance that nobody could see. "Rest in peace."

After people's expectant looks and the fidgeting that ensued once they realized that was all she had to say, Sam had craned her neck up to glare at Freddie, who had worn the same expression as everyone else. "Benson! For the love of God, if I wanted to sit around, _immobilized_, I wouldn't have hired you for this job!"

Her frustrated grunts as she wrestled with the wheels of her wheelchair going down the stairs had been enough to snap him out of his dazed stupor. Somebody had hurried onto the stage and placed the wheelchair down onto level ground once he had held Sam securely in his arms, before the science teacher had taken over the microphone, beginning _his_ story about the first time he had Carly as a student in the fourth grade…

Later on in the funeral reception, he had gone up to Spencer as Melanie had temporarily taken over his job of steering Sam. Out of all the sea of somber faces, Spencer – the goofy artist of an older brother, _Spencer_ – had looked the gravest out of all. Spencer had given him a grin, too empty to be personal and too tight-lipped to be genuine. Freddie had warily watched Spencer take a large swig of whatever was in the glass.

"I'm sorry about Sam."

Spencer had not looked too surprised at the mention of the blonde-haired demon, but he had not looked too pleased either. "I wish I could say I wasn't expecting it." Perhaps Freddie had looked like he was about to object on Sam's behalf, because Spencer sighed. "I know, it's Sam. And you know I love her for who she is. I just… I just wish she'd say the appropriate things at the appropriate times, for _once_."

He knew what Spencer had meant, but he also knew what Sam had been trying to achieve: emotional detachment, to shield herself from the prying eyes behind their red swollenness that were like hawks in gauging at her, waiting for her to break. At that point, however, he had not tried to explain it all to Spencer. If Sam had wanted people to know of her true intentions, she would have clarified the facts herself.

Therefore, he had not said a word more, respecting her unspoken wishes. Instead, he joined Spencer in letting the suffocating guilt consume them.

While some parts of the funeral are a blur of pink faces and sobs and raindrops, the most vivid moment he remembers of that day is the scattering of Carly's ashes. The pattering rain had finally stopped, albeit the sky kept its depressing shades of grey. When Spencer had stepped forward with a red-glazed urn in his hands, Freddie had been the only one who had been visibly taken aback. Everyone but he and Sam had known that Carly's body had been cremated; he had been too busy urging Sam's then-comatose state to wake up when Spencer had made the announcement two days ago.

Sam had not reacted as violently as he had, if only because of her attempt at self-emotional isolation.

He, of course, knows that it was probably what Carly would have wanted anyway. She had been a free spirit before death – it only made sense that her soul was released from its corporeal form after death. Nonetheless, he remembers that his shocked reaction had been involuntary and quickly put into check at Sam's withering glare. A hush fell like a thick blanket over the crowd as all eyes were glued onto Spencer's shaking gloved hands snaking in the urn to return back out with a fistful of ashes. He had sworn to have heard Sam taking a harsh intake of breath that caught in her throat.

The wind had blown then; a gentle breeze. Closed fist faced upward to the sky, Spencer's fingers had opened, one by one.

Freddie had not known what had been more heartbreaking: the finality of Carly's ashes being released back to nature, or watching his living friend's eyes turn dull as they tried desperately to follow the invisible trail of Carly's spirit.

Choking back his own tears, he had unconsciously squeezed the hand that had been resting quietly on top of Sam's shoulder. He had felt her body quiver. While other people had remained mesmerized as the urn began to slowly get emptied, his eyes had averted away from the harsh resolution and had focused on Sam. He had been the only one to witness her unraveling, and if he thinks about it now, he can hazard a guess that she had allowed a moment of vulnerability because she knew he was the only witness to her fall.

She had clutched at the fabric right above the location of her heart, and he knew she had finally come to terms with reality: her heart is still beating. Carly's is not.

His heart had contracted painfully at her silent tears.

Now he is sitting next to Sam's hospital bed with Sam (he tries to avoid looking at the needles that are poking through her arm) tucked under the white sheets. She is sitting up despite his protests that she needs to rest – she countered with her own stubborn determination that she was in charge of her body, thank you very much – and it is one of those days where they just _sit_ there without breaking the soft lull of silence woven around them for the past hour. She lets him absently drum his fingers on her sheet-covered knee closest to him as she twirls a golden curl between her fingers.

It has been a week and a half since the shootout and a week since the funeral. Sam is being discharged in three days, with little proof that she, along with four other surviving civilians, had been involved in such an incident. The only evidence of the violence this world is truly capable of is the tiny scars that pepper her right shoulder – the one near her collarbone being the darkest. He hates those scars, and he admires her bravery.

He always has.

He is going to give her another week to gradually have the fire return to her eyes, for the zombie, flat look to disappear forever. Unconsciously, he turns his head to observe her, and she closes her eyes as soon as they make eye contact. He resists the urge to trace the heavy circles under her eyes – they made her look sicker. Less Sam-like, more vulnerable.

He also does not like this weak version of Invincible Sam.

Looking at the clock on the wall, he is slightly startled to see that it is already four o'clock and that he has missed the freshmen orientation day. Not that it had been an event he had been looking forward to anyway. He wonders how summer holidays could flip his world upside down so mercilessly, sorely wishing for his high school days with both his best friends.

Sam is asleep (_finally_), so he patiently lowers her down until her head finally rests against the pillow without managing to wake her up (she has always been a heavy sleeper). He brushes a stray strand of gold away from her forehead, and a wave of fierce protectiveness washes through him.

He vows to the heavens, to God, to Carly that he will keep his only remaining, _living_ best friend alive.

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own iCarly. Only the plot is solely mine.

**Author's Note:** Anddd the plot bunny strikes again. I have high hopes for this story. Review would very much be appreciated. :)


	2. Guilt

Chapter 2: Guilt

The world should have stopped after Carly's death but it does not. The Earth continues to spin on its axis, morning becomes night and night becomes morning, summer has transitioned into autumn, and before he knows it, he has a week until his sophomore year in university starts. He has been ignoring the future that has been looming in front of him, but now he finds that he cannot avert it any longer.

He is back to his normal routines now. He shaves for the first time in a month (it also has to do with trying to bring out any snappy comments from Sam, but it had failed), he lets his mother make him a prune pop (which he finishes under a minute), and he arranges his desk, clearing the scrap paper away and replacing it with new, thick textbooks. He hates to admit, but going back to his familiar life _before_ Carly's death (it has become easier to think about that, too) is refreshing, a breath of new air from the sadness and gloom and the gaping hole of loss in his heart that had suffocated him for so long.

He knows Spencer is coping in his own way, producing at least five new art pieces a week. He has seen them all: a painting in various hues of blue of a lady on an abandoned road and the wacky sculpture of who-knows-what composed of bits and pieces of plastic vines are his favorites. Spencer still mopes sometimes and orders unhealthy amounts of take-out food (he is painfully aware that Carly had used to cook dinner for her brother on the weekends), but he no longer has that haggard look on his face, and his smiles have become brighter, more welcoming than it had in the funeral. Spencer is still coping, but at least Freddie recognizes it to be a _healthy_ method of dealing with his grief.

Freddie knows that Wendy has been excessively shopping, Gibby has been furiously hitting punching bags for a week now, and that Nevel is being extra nasty to little children. He is aware of how other people are dealing with the aftermath of Carly's death, because it is _his_ way of handling it all. He does not find a need to worry about any of them.

But he _does_ have an anxious pit in his stomach when it comes to Sam.

Sam does not deal with Carly's death the same way she had dealt with her previous moments of grieving. It had all to do with some form of violence – whether it was trashing her room or throwing rocks at a random parked car or picking a petty fight with a hobo, she had always managed to get her feelings out of her system. However, this time it is different. She sits. She eats. She sleeps. She walks. She talks (granted, only when she wants to).

To sum it all up, she functions in a way a normal human being is supposed to. _This_ is what makes Freddie wary. She acts and does average things that an average person with an average life leads; the problem is, her eyes are unseeing, her chewing is mechanical, and her laughter is as blank as the whitewash of the hospital walls. Sometimes when they are alone, Freddie sees her absently tugging at her hair, uncharacteristically quiet.

He has tried everything to get her to resume her previous mean-but-well-meaning nature, including the failed mustache, but nothing is working. Everyone is tiptoeing around Sam as if she was a dormant volcano. Freddie, on the other hand, is doing everything he can to _trigger_ an explosion. To him, the faster she vented, the faster life would go on the way it should have been before the incident.

He finally gets what he wants three days later in an abandoned parking lot.

She is sitting in the back seat of his second-hand car, one leg hoisted onto the worn leather seat and she stares out of the window. Her unseeing eyes dully reflect the buildings and pedestrians they pass. He wishes she would sit in the front seat with him, but it is Carly's seat. She would always cheerfully call out shotgun while Sam did not care. "Wanna stop by the Groovy Smoothie?"

The forcefully chipper question is met with a stony glare before he sees her from the rear-view mirror shaking her head. He ignores how his question is met; he should not have asked in the first place. The Groovy Smoothie was a place he, Carly, and Sam used to go as the _three_ of them. It would be wrong to show up without the brunette. Sighing, he keeps on driving, the stretch of silence longer than the bumpy road they skimmed over.

A taco truck whizzes past them. Freddie makes a U-turn and they wind up eating in a Chinese restaurant. He orders her favorite chow mein with extra chicken for the both of them, and willingly lets Sam pick out the meat from his food as well until he is left with nothing but fried noodles and some vegetables. He tries to start up a conversation with her, determined to get more than a 'yes' or 'no' answer.

"Sam."

"What, Benson?"

"We need to talk."

"It's rude to talk with your mouth full."

"But you still do it."

"Only because you're obviously not educated in table etiquette. Geez, you even have your elbows on the table – didn't your mom teach you any manners?"

"Since when did you care?"

"I'm trying to put Carly's girly lectures to good use."

He winces under Sam's unflinching stare. The mention of Carly is a lot more painful a jab than he predicts it to be, so he drops the subject. He still feels her sharp eyes on him and he inwardly wonders when he has become the observed. After a few gloomy prods at his noodles, he promptly stands up. "I'm going to the bathroom," he announces. She does not care.

Without a backward glance, his steps slow down as he enters the small bathroom. He turns on the tap and keeps the water running. Once upon a time, wasting water would have been a big concern for him, but tonight he was too tired to think of anything other than his selfish worries. He feels the whole weight on his shoulders; he had been feeling fine this morning until he took Sam out for the day. What went wrong? With Sam, university and financial worries were no longer a problem in favor of making sure she did not implode in front of people at the wrong time. And how is he to keep an eye on her when university starts? Sure, he can always drive back and forth between their campuses, but he cannot do that all the time – he had classes to attend during the day, as did she.

He feels _old._

"Hey Freddie."

He glances up at the sound of his name to see Griffin's reflection in the mirror. He manages an automatic smile back. "Hey man, how's it going?"

"As good as things can go, I guess. I still can't believe Carly -."

"-Yeah." He flinches again as the image of a smiling Carly flashes through his mind. He does not feel guilty at all for cutting the older boy off. He pretends that her death has not affected him one bit, when in reality, even hearing her name brings painful pangs in his heart. He turns to leave but Griffin decides to casually block his path at the same time as Griffin walks towards the sink. Freddie bites back a retort; the other boy is obviously not done with the topic at hand. Either he is incredibly tactless or incredibly stubborn.

"So how's Sam?" The soften tone as well as the mention of his (living) best friend makes him snap his head up, startled. Griffin continues, pretending not to notice his reaction. "The last time I talked to her, she wasn't handling Carly's death too well."

"The _last_ time?" That is the only statement that catches his attention. Griffin just nods coolly which riles Freddie up. Since when did Sam start hanging out with Griffin? How did he not know this?

"Yeah. She told me she's been feeling like a wreck because she thinks Carly dying is her fault." Griffin sees Freddie's stunned expression and misinterprets it to mean something else. "I know, right?" He can detect a hint of frustration in Griffin's voice and it hits him that Griffin and Sam must be close in order for the older boy to _care_ that much. It unnerves him. "I keep on telling her that she couldn't have prevented the shoot out but goddamn, she is _impossible_ to get through to sometimes."

It takes Freddie a while to soak all this new information in. He can understand whatever guilt she may be feeling – however, what he _cannot_ fathom is why he has to hear this all from somebody else, especially _Carly's ex-boyfriend_ of all people. It is quite insulting to think that Sam can trust anybody but him. While he is brooding over this, Griffin goes on, either not noticing or not caring that Freddie is not paying any heed to him at all.

"…And I'm also trying to convince her not to drop out of college, because that's not what Carly would've wanted anyway."

He does not know what catches his attention: yet _another_ bombshell of news or Carly's name. His head snaps up anyhow. Griffin does not look surprised at Freddie's dumbfounded look. It is almost as though he has been expecting such a reaction. Ignoring his urge to punch the irascible all-knowing look on Griffin's face, he manages to grind out through gritted teeth, "What?"

"Boy, you really don't know, huh." The question is a rhetorical one, so Griffin just carries on without waiting for Freddie's response. "She hasn't been dealing with the whole death thing very well, and she has nobody to talk it with, so…"

"She has _me_."

To Griffin's credit, he sounds apologetic as he looks. "Sorry dude. Not saying that you aren't there for her, but… well, she said that it's hard to talk to you about Carly when you're pretending she never existed."

This is dangerous territory, and Griffin is relentlessly bulldozing through the area. Freddie does not bother to hide his scowl. "That's complete _bullshit_ – I'm the only person that's completely over it!" He bites back words that are not worth saying out loud, words that are not worth saying to the blasé boy in front of him because who is he to lecture him about Sam when _he_ is not the one who has been friends with her since elementary school…

Freddie turns away, calmly wiping his hands on a napkin before brutally tossing it in the trash can. "I better get going; Sam's probably eating my food by now." Not that he particularly cares. Without another word, he stalks out, his arms stiff and unnatural by his sides. Sam looks up briefly from her – _his_ – plate.

"You took too much time reapplying your make up in the bathroom, so I took the liberty to finish it myself." And then she resumes eating until the plate is all but licked clean. He just watches her thoughtfully, mulling over what Griffin has said. It is hard to digest it all at once, but luckily Sam takes a while devouring the dessert she had ordered during his absence. She sits back in her chair lazily while he pays for the both of them.

"Let's go, Benson. Somebody must have stolen your car in that dingy parking lot by now."

He walks a little behind of Sam, observing the absent bounce in her steps that nobody but he has noticed whenever she is (temporarily) full. "Sam," he finally calls out, but she does not seem to hear him because her steps do not miss a beat, continuing their steps towards his second-hand car. _His_ feet quicken and a hand darts out to hold onto her arm. "_Sam_." Only then does she turn around, her eyebrows arching high on her forehead. "We need to talk."

"About?"

"You and Griffin."

He marvels how she can look so unaffected and unblinking at his accusatory words. She sighs, and tries to jerk his hand off of her arm. He remains firmly latched on. "Freddie, let go of my arm."

"No. Not until you answer my question."

"There's nothing to answer." Her flinty blue eyes meet his, and suddenly, a surge of indescribable emotion flows through him.

He is angry. It is the first burning emotion he has let himself feel in a long time. His fingers unconsciously furl around her flesh tighter. "How is it that you can talk to Griffin, but not me? I mean, it makes total sense that you open yourself to a person you've known for a few years when we've only known each other since the first grade, _right_?" While Sam has always been the most fluent in sarcasm, it drips off his tongue easily like venom on a snake's fangs.

He can see that she is angry too, her small hands clenching and unclenching into tight fists. "How can I _possibly _talk to you when your face practically _spasms_ at the sound of Carly's name? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to want to talk about Carls to get it out of my system, and the _only_ person I wanted to vent to was stuck in this – this oblivious _bubble_ where she never existed?"

The shock of Sam's glistening eyes, as well as the frustration and hurt coming from somebody that he actually cares about hits him hard on the chest. While Sam breathes heavily, his hand weakens from her arm. She takes this opportunity to shake him off fiercely, and bangs the door of his car noisily behind her. He remains motionless in the same spot, his arm falling limply back to his side. He never – the state of distress Sam had been in sends him reeling back, and it takes a while to register the slow but steady rain drops that plops onto his head.

He gets into the car as well, but he does not start the engine. Sam says nothing. The hood of her sweater casts a shadow on her face, shielding her eyes from him.

What he hates the most, he realizes, is that what Griffin and Sam has said is probably all true. When he flashes back to the past week, he notices that he _does_ flinch when Spencer picks up Carly's smiling picture, his face contorts when Sam brings up the beach trip she and Carly had gone to last year, his mother watches him wordlessly as he takes down the pictures of the trio from his walls and replaces them with university schedules, family pictures... He has been trying to deal with her death, but it was not executed well. It is easier to pretend nothing has been missing from his life rather than to face the gaping hole that has been torn through the sturdy fabric of his life.

"Sam-."

"Just drive."

Her sharp tone leaves his pride smarting, but he follows her command anyway and starts driving with a heavy heart. The dull trees that blur past them are as depressing as the grey sky that stretches on forever. The radio that hums through the car is not loud enough to drown out the steady rain that thuds on the roof. Sam's silent mourning only adds to the weight on his shoulders as they head for her house.

Despite her protests (and painful shoves), he follows her into the tiny flat that she and Melanie share. He can immediately discern which is Sam's room; the door is chipped and scribbled on, and her clothes are strewn everywhere. Strangely, it does not take much for him to ignore the urge to remark about the state of her room – he has larger problems in mind, such as getting things sorted out straight with the blonde-headed demon that was currently glaring daggers from the floor.

"Look – I'm sorry."

"For bruising my arm or being an ass?" She is not even looking at him anymore. He takes in a deep breath.

"Both. I – I thought I was handling Carly's… _death_ pretty well. But now I realize that I haven't." Voice softening, he gingerly sits on the chair nearest to her, and continues when Sam does not look as murderous as before. "I just want to be here for you. You can still talk to me, you know that, right?"

At first she avoids making eye contact with him at all costs. He counts the seconds until Sam's bottom lip starts to quiver. He braces himself for the flood – but the words that come out of her mouth chills him to the bone.

"I should've died, Freddie. Not Carly. _Me_."

His mouth is open and hanging stupidly. He blinks incredulously at Sam's seriousness. "Sam – _what_? No, don't say things like that. You couldn't have stopped them -,"

"No, but I could've died in her place!" The desperation that radiates from her wrenches his heart into different pieces, and he helplessly watches her continue. "Everybody lost so much when Carly died. But if I died, nobody would have suffered! Spencer would still have Carly, and mom – well, that's the good thing about having an identical twin to replace you." She is angry – angry at Freddie, at Carly, but mostly at herself for not being able to take Carly's place. She is so convinced that everybody else would have been better off if she had died instead that she is letting the guilt eat her alive. It is killing you to watch her suffer this much. "People need Carly, not _me_."

She makes no sense, and it horrifies him that she could even be _thinking _of such things. "That's not true. I need you."

She is quiet for a moment before a harsh laugh breezes past her lips. "You'd still have _your_ mom, Benson."

The remark is not as biting or stinging as the past, but he is willing to cling on to any sign of familiarity he can get. His ears ringing with her bitterness, he shakes his head and joins her on the floor, his arms wrapping around her as she shakes into his shoulder. All he can do is rest his chin on top of her head as his shirt quickly gets damp, and tries to forget how the embers that had once burned intensely in her eyes turn dull.

All he can do is wonder how things could get so _screwed up._

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own iCarly. Only the plot is solely mine.

**Author's Note:** Woah, this chapter turned out a _lot_ longer than I thought it would be. Nonetheless, if you managed to shift through this chapter, I would love it if you dropped me a review! The reviews for the first chapter were very encouraging and very much appreciated. :)


	3. Crazy

Chapter 3: Crazy

He blames himself for not seeing it sooner.

He should've known something was wrong when Sam had called him at three o'clock in the morning. He blames it on his disorientated state of mind and how he'd only slept for an hour when she'd called and that he would've noticed it in the morning, but deep down inside he knows he's too busy with university life to figure out the strange tone of her voice that night, even if he was wide awake.

"Sam?" he'd grunted, ignoring his roommate's mutter for him to _'shut up and get the fuck to sleep'_. He'd done a little swearing once he peered into his neon green alarm clock by his bedside. "Sam, it's freaking _three _in the_ morning_."

"Morning to you too, Benson." There had been silence on the phone that would've usually been filled by Freddie, had he not been practically falling asleep with his phone pressed against his cheek. He almost succeeded in succumbing to his drowsiness when Sam's sharp voice rang through his ear. "Earth to Freddie!"

He'd mumbled something grumpily before realising that Sam would kick his ass if he didn't talk to her. "Please tell me it's something important to call me at this hour."

All he remembers now is that there had been a lot of pregnant pauses in their short conversation, even more so than usual. But it's because of how absurdly long this particular pause had been that he can even recite, word for word, Sam's next words.

"I saw Carly today."

That had jolted him awake, if only for a brief moment, and all he did was chuckle uncomfortably. "She was in my dream as well, funnily enough," he'd said, even though there had been that deep, nagging feeling in his stomach that was telling him that wasn't at all what Sam had meant. But whenever Freddie wants to justify himself, he brings up the fact that, one, it was three in the fucking _morning_ and two, his _charming_ roommate had been distracting him with his complaints of _"dude, get off the fucking phone with your fucking girlfriend so that I can get some fucking sleep!"._

So what he did was ignore his roommate, ignore the nagging feeling in his stomach, and worst of all, ignore Sam. "Look, can I call you when it's _not_ three A.M?"

"Benson –"

"If it's about not taking you to the Fat Cakes factory the other day, I already told you that I'd make it up to you next week."

"Freddie, that's not-"

"Goodnight, Sam."

It pains him to admit, but he hadn't thought much about that conversation for the next two months after it'd occurred. It's the usual excuse of why he hasn't paid enough attention to her: he was too swamped with university life, he was working on an unpaid internship for a small company, he was working night-shifts at a restaurant near his university to pay off student loans… Calling Sam back had left his mind as soon as he'd promised it, and it hadn't occurred to him until he'd received Spencer's disturbing phone call months later.

"Sam's in the hospital."

_Sam's in the fucking hospital._

In a span of a few seconds, his carefully-constructed life shatters into a million pieces and old wounds are torn open. He curses Samantha Puckett in a hundred different ways as he rushes to the hospital (it's not the same one where Carly had – never mind), almost surpassing the speed limit but not quite. The blonde-haired demon will never let him live the rest of his days in peace, he's sure of it.

Spencer looks alarmed next to him, but Freddie isn't sure if it's because Freddie's uncharacteristically swearing like a sailor, or because his foot is _thisclose_ to flooring the accelerator.

It's only when he barges into the hospital – quite a feat, seeing as they're revolving doors – that he realizes he is close to hysteria. The nurses immediately rush up to him to check his forehead, his neck, his pulse on his wrist, and are about to pry his eyelids further open to scrutinize at his eyes when he finally bats the flurry of hands away impatiently. "I'm fine!" he yells, and all eyes in the building swivel around to look at him. Freddie takes a deep breath to subdue himself, rubbing his temples with two fingers. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

Spencer takes charge while Freddie struggles to maintain his composure.

* * *

><p>Later he finds out why she's in the hospital: Sam's slashed her wrists.<p>

He sits carefully on the edge of her bed and looks at her with big, saddened eyes that prompt Sam to snarl, "What are you looking like a kicked puppy for, Benson? You're not the one stuck in this hell hole."

He doesn't know if he wants to laugh because she sounds like her old self or cry because her heavily bandaged wrists make her look so frail. "I'm not the one that put you here," he says sternly, leaning over to push back an unruly curl that hangs in the middle of her face. She stares back at him despite the spontaneous gentle show of affection. As usual, he shies away from her gaze – the unfathomable darkness that lingers behind those bright blue eyes frightens him.

After a pregnant pause, she leans back heavily into the pillows. "You're right," she finally sighs. "You're not the one that put me here."

"I'm glad you still have _some_ sense left-"

"Carly did."

His smile freezes on his face. "What?"

Her composure remains indifferent. Her eyes slowly close as though she is trying to shut out an exceptionally painful memory. This time, every word is enunciated, clear and loud so that there's no mistaking in what she says. "Carly put me here."

This time, he can't fight back the inexplicable sob that wrecks his body, making the whole bed tremble slightly under him. Sam doesn't acknowledge the sound, doesn't acknowledge this strangled cry that is wrenched out of his throat.

All she does is sigh, eyes still firmly shut to him and the world.

* * *

><p><p>

"They say I'm crazy, you know."

It's been three months since Sam was last hospitalized for trying to commit suicide. She's still lives in a crisp hospital bed, methodically chews on bland hospital food, and interacts with broken patients – except it's not the same hospital.

It's a psychiatric hospital, not unlike the one Sam had willingly checked herself into when she had assumed her feelings for him as a sign of mental illness. His hands that had been furiously plumping her rather flat pillows pause in midair. Sam looks unfazed at his reaction – or maybe she just doesn't care enough about anything or anyone anymore. In any case, she looks at him expectantly, making a noise in the back of her throat when he still remains comically still.

She roughly snatches her pillow from his hands and tosses them to the side, which prompts him back to life. "Hey, I just plumped that," he protests, but his voice is weak, still full of uncertainty. And suddenly she shoves her face right up close to his until he can count the tiny freckles on her nose (there are five in total), blue eyes blazing like cold fire in her spontaneous eruption of determination.

He doesn't know what's fueling this stubborn spirit, but it's the most alive he's seen her for weeks. So he takes a noticeable gulp and tries to meet her gaze steadily with his.

"Benson," she says, voice edged with impatience. "They say I'm crazy."

He subtly tries to lean away so that he could have room to think, but she follows. It's no use. "You _are_ in a psychiatric hospital, Sam." What else was he supposed to say? The doctors all thought there was something wrong with her, and were only convinced of it further when she'd made the mistake of telling them that Carly – Carly Shay, a girl dead for almost a year now! – visited her every day. Her nose scrunches up as she looks at him, still expectant, and for an instant, he's angry. What more did she want from him? What did she expect him to say? Why was he the one that had to deal with all the pain when all he wanted was to bask in happiness?

He suppresses this lump of unfair resentfulness and shakes his head at her slowly. "You're seeing Carly everywhere." It hurts him still to utter _her_ name. Carly. Dead. "Carly's _dead_."

He swears he sees the fog in those blue eyes lift momentarily as she starts at his words. He can almost hear his voice echo in her head.

Carly. Dead.

He lets himself feel hopeful as clarity seems to settle into the girl. Maybe this had been the cure all along after all, maybe now she'd return to his she-devil of a girl –

But then her eyes turn blank again with painful familiarity. His stomach churns uncomfortably as she tilts her head at him in puppy-like confusion.

"Do _you_ think I'm crazy?"

It's almost as though she hadn't heard him at all. He bites back an exasperated grimace and stands up abruptly from the bed. The room is silent for a minute as he picks up the discarded pillow and props it behind her. He ignores the questioning stare that lingers on his face while he eases her into lying down – only when her head hits the pillow, her golden curls surrounding her like a mass of glossy clouds does he sit back down by her side.

"No, I don't."

Her smile that follows breaks his heart from its simplistic joy. "Good. You're the only one I have left, you know. Well –," she breaks off, turning her head to the side and stares so intensely at the blank wall that his eyes automatically follows, half-expecting a figure to be standing there. "You and Carly. It's always been you and Carly by my side."

The words eerily hang there between them and he wishes he could grab them out of the air and cram them back down her throat. He readies himself to bring her back down to the soul-crushing place of reality. "Sam…"

"Carly tells me that there's a great view of the city from the rooftop."

He wishes for a great deal of things, but all he desires currently is for the Carly of Sam's imagination to be very much real and alive and whole.

He now understands, perhaps not completely but enough, why Sam has protected herself with this bubble of her own world. Everything would be so much easier if he could believe that Carly hadn't died in that shootout, that Carly was more than just a ghost in their everyday lives. However, he also knows that the both of them cannot wrap themselves in a dangerous cocoon of lies.

Nonetheless, he can't bring himself to erase that peaceful smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth. _One more night,_ he tells himself. _I'll let herself live one more night in her world of Carly before I bring her back down to our world for good tomorrow._ She wordlessly leans into his palm when he reaches out to touch her cheek.

"Tell Carly that I miss her."

"She can hear you, stupid. She's right here." she mumbles back, already succumbing to the demanding caress of sleep. He waits until she is in deep slumber before he can bear to retract his hand, letting it hang limp on his lap.

"I miss you Carly."

As expected, he's met with unrelenting silence. A bitter smile taints his lips.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow, everything will change for the better._

* * *

><p><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>I do not own iCarly. Only the plot is solely mine (and whatever characterization that derives from the ones established from the show).

**Author's Note: **First of all, I'm so so so sorry to those still following this story (which is very hard to believe, but I'm still so apologetic) that I haven't updated for almost a year now. I was just going over my list of uncompleted stories, and I felt that I had really invested in this plot before writer's block had fallen on me... so now I shall see to its end (which would be the next chapter anyway). All reviews would be appreciated (especially since I just picked this up again), and to all the followers (old and the new), I love youuu. 3


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